


This Could Be Love

by LelithSugar



Series: Bloodied Up  - the 'Perverts in Love' Consensual!AU Thramsay [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Cake, Consensual Kink, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Smut, If you think this has a happy ending... you're right well done you, Knifeplay, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Ramsay is his own warning, Roleplay, Smut, and Theon loves it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:31:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9591893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: It's all fun and games until someone gets stabbed. And to be fair, Ramsay only stabs Theon a little bit, and he makes it right up to him.A further installment of my slightly ridiculously-pretensed Consensual!AU in which you will find kink, filth, cake and snuggling.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of warnings: bloody descriptions and casual references to handfuls of other kinks. Apologies for any errors I've missed.
> 
> Title is for the Alkaline Trio song which I'm fairly confident could be the anthem for the Thramsay fandom. 
> 
> Crib notes on the AU/Setting: If you can't be bothered to go back and read, I set up an AU in this series in which... the whole bloody mess is a cover for the fact that Ramsay and Theon discovered upon meeting that they were a highly compatible kind of perverts and ran with it. The version presented in Game of Thrones (Season three ish) is a kind of 'chinese whispers account', put together from stories around the Dreadfort which are absolutely encouraged by our bonkers young pair because it affords them the luxury not only of maintaining their relationship in plain sight but of being able to get off on all manner of public weirdness without anyone daring to question it. Ahh, young love. What are you gonna do, right? And I literally do not care one bit how ridiculous that is,

Reek was delivered to Ramsay's rooms efficiently enough, but it was fortunate that he wasn't as fragile as he appeared because he would have surely been damaged in the process _._ Ramsay had returned from the hunt – a real one - with blisters from his bow, a few decent kills and his blood all riled up, and had a lackey drag Theon up from the stables and throw him bodily at his master's feet.

If he hadn't enjoyed the sight so much Ramsay might have taught the man a lesson about manhandling his property so roughly, but Theon didn't seem to be suffering unduly for it in any way he wasn't likely to enjoy; he was managing a very convincing impression of 'obedient and terrified' and as usual, it had gone straight to Ramsay's cock. The only natural continuation was a boot to the ribs, quick and aimed carefully to look careless and to connect only with the upper side of the toes, rather than the ridge where the sole met. It would bruise anyway. Theon whined and fell forwards; Ramsay caught him in lowered and outstretched hands.

“My Reek,” he beamed with a disarming affection that he was sure he saw the servant wince at... then wrinkled his nose. “What the fuck have you been rolling in today, you disgusting creature?” He stooped and kissed his head fondly. “Have you missed me?”

“Yes m'lord,” Theon gibbered quickly, admirably stifling the quick flush of joy that always accompanied such a clear-cut and effortless double bluff.

“Good. On your knees.”

Fresh from the stable, for once Theon actually smelled nearly as bad as Ramsay protested. Of course, nobody ever argued with him... he was known to have a sensitive nose, and it had never really been a lie: years of hunting had taught him to notice scent far more keenly than others, and it played a more prominent role in his instincts than most people's. Early on in their dalliance he'd adjusted to the unique smell of Theon - the way he knew most of the people closest to him by smell alone - and come to associate it with debauchery. So he'd nurtured that, added his own touches and now Theon stank of blood and sex and Ramsay and yes, now of straw and horse shit and other things that weren't such a desirable part of the tapestry, but those were easily remedied. Since returning to the Dreadfort, Ramsay had carefully worked extravagant bathing routines into his own artifice of superiority: it was good to make demands that took effort to fill, and moreso because it wasn't unreasonable for him to want to get all the blood off. The Bastard of Bolton may have been a lot of things, but he'd at least be them clean. Furthermore, nobody had offered any objection to handing the closer aspects of servitude to the upsettingly eager pet that they'd once known as Theon Greyjoy, keen to remove themselves just about as far as possible and as quickly as possible from proximity to being shut in a room with Ramsay and a straight razor, so it afforded the pair some privacy.

Reliably free from interruptions, Ramsay was fond of washing quickly, efficiently, and spending the time, attention and soap he saved that way on wiping the real Theon out from under the layers of coal and mud so he could start again. Once he'd comandeered the huge wooden tub that rightfully belonged in the master chambers – his father having no time for such indulgence – he'd started taking Theon into the rare comfort of the hot water with him and baths had become hours-long affairs full of open mouthed kisses and slippery groping, and the occasional delight of running his fingers through Theon's hair as he washed it, only to tighten them without warning and drag his head under the water. It was a delicate thing: working him up, forcing his head down and watching for the exact right moment to pull him out and finish him off, and the attention was always rewarded with that gorgeous shuddering sigh Theon made as the rush caught up to his head. And if Ramsay happened to smear Theon's come over him as his skin dried, if he gave in to the temptation to take him over the side of the tub and leave both of their sweat to linger on Theon whilst he rinsed himself back off in the rapidly cooling water, it was a good base for the way he liked him to smell: real, and of them.

Sometimes Ramsay liked to mark Theon as his a little more viscerally: with blood, or like a few mornings previously, when following a whim after the scant few minutes needed to take his pleasure from the boy's mouth Ramsay had thrown him back on the floor, pissed on him and bade him fuck off to his daily duties without stopping to wash. He'd presumed that would be shrugged away like so many of the more outlandish demands he threw in for effect, mostly to see the bodily shiver Theon treated him to – albeit involuntarily - when he really shocked him. By the time Theon had obeyed third-hand orders and presented himself at the foot of Ramsay's bed that evening, he had the patina of a day's duties in the forge and Ramsay had all but forgotten about that little interlude, as enjoyable as it had been... but then he leant in to track his fingers through the ash on Theon's face, stroked at the fresh ember burns on his forearms and underneath the smoke and the iron and the sweat, _he'd still been able to smell it on him._

The ensuing fuck had broken two items of furniture and, most unfortunately, knocked over the trivet that supported the water boiling on the hearth fire, which Theon had promptly slipped into. Putting his arms out to brace his fall, he'd been scalded badly up to the elbow; a quick douse in snowmelt and frenzied, shaking climaxes had followed in due course and there was little to be done for the burn other than tend to the blisters. If nothing else, the shiny pink flesh that poked from beneath clean wrappings vouched some authenticity for the whispers that were growing more twisted at every echo: people saw the fresh wound and averted their eyes. Somehow Ramsay himself couldn't stop looking at it and remembering the whole debacle, and that wasn't doing anything to quell his excitement either.

An irritating rustle that was probably supposed to sound accidental brought Ramsay's attention to where the manservant was still standing, nervous but attentive, on the threshold of the room. He'd been there all the time Ramsay had been musing to himself, twining his fingers into Theon's hair and staring at him hotly, and was looking distinctly unsettled though he did his best to merely blink acknowledgement of his orders when Ramsay got round to them.

“I'll need my crested surcoat in the morning if we're to ride out. And enough hot water to soak the stench off him, if you would.” There was a pause whilst the attendant waited for more instruction or dismissal; Ramsay pointedly began to unlace his breeches. “Unless you're staying to watch?”

And the attendant high tailed off down the corridoors, presumably to ruminate on Theon's fate with his peers, or drown his imagination in ale, or likely a combination of both which would only contribute to the stories getting longer and worse.

Theon was looking at Ramsay hungrily, predictably appreciative of the sight of his master in his hunting gear; Ramsay stayed his hands on his lacings: it didn't always do to give him what he wanted too quickly. Another night, when they weren't busy perpetuating the rumours they'd started or the stories they'd heard echoed back, Theon would have had him out of that neat black doublet quicker than wildfire, but the mood the rough introduction had created called for something more interesting. Besides, Theon's eyes kept dropping to Ramsay's boots, which could have been an effort to appear meek and subservient, or something to do with how much he liked seeing his lord all properly dressed and put together. Either way, it was quite lovely and Ramsay had every intention of abusing it.

Subtly, as if to appear incidental, Ramsay scuffed his right foot against the floor and smiled to himself when Theon's eyes immediately snapped down to it. Oh, but he had him so well trained, and he didn't even need to give the order for Theon to bow and put reverent lips to the dulled but sturdy calf's leather of his boot.

Theon glanced up, seeking approval, and Ramsay nodded for him to continue. He made a beautiful picture: he was sporting a livid purple bruise around his left eye, his autumn-fair curls were lank and long enough to reach his cheekbones at the front and his bottom lip was unevenly swollen, thicker on the left side. It leant him a wonky, painted sort of prettiness that Ramsay held the impression Theon would probably be quite pleased with should he catch sight of his reflection, not least because he'd know how appealing Ramsay found it.

Theon took his gloves off – taking a moment to flex out the fingers that had been curled against his palm all the time he'd had them on – and produced a surprisinlgy clean rag from his belt pouch. He used it knock the worst of the frosted mud from Ramsay's boots before winding it around his knuckles and using it to scuff them clean. He kept his head low, close to task, and used his tongue to moisten the leather where he should reasonably have spat. The boots were well made and well fitted: Ramsay could feel every little tug on the calfskin, could feel the tender press of Theon's mouth as he devoted his undivided attention to his work, and the interest crept up his legs. Perhaps not undivided attention, after all: Theon's fussing had made its way gradually up to the the tops of the boots, and he began to straighten as his hand crept determinedly up Ramsay's inseam. He kept leaning in for worshipful kisses until he worked up as far as to come to eye level with Ramsay's half undone and visibly straining trousers.

“Please -” He lifted his hand but stopped and remembered to duck his head down, drop his gaze back to the boots and ask properly. “My lord, please may I-?”

“Did I ask you to beg?”

“No.” The answer was quick and correct but somehow petulant, its sincerity mocked by the whining tone, but Ramsay was gripping Theon's jaw before he could speak again.  
  
“No, I didn't. Good boy.” Ramsay, at some length of fiddling, managed to free his cock one handed and held it to Theon's lips wearily, as if he was doing him some sort of service. “Here. Shut up.”

Theon accepted gratefully.

As soon as he was taken in, Ramsay took up a leisurely handhold in Theon's hair and began to thrust into his open throat. Harsh it may have been, but he knew how much Theon enjoyed having his hair twirled, petted, yanked... Ramsay was treated to a whine of pain that melted into a blissful groan as he consolidated his grip and pulled. Theon's eyes were closed and watering but every now and then he blinked them clear and looked beguilingly up at him with his best _does this please you my lord_ face, as if he didn't know damn well.

It was, on reflection, a shame the attendant hadn't stayed. What a truly beautiful sight that was.

It'd be a lie to deny that he wanted them to look. Ramsay had flirted with the idea of making his use of Theon a little more unavoidably public: the staff were already perfectly used to pretending they were averting their eyes when he stalked into the kennels and dragged 'Reek' back by the collar or the hair to his bedchamber and he couldn't credit even them with enough stupidity not to realise the extent to which Theon's loyal servituede was expected and abused. He'd deliberately not left enough room for doubt, because he knew how much Theon enjoyed the thought of people imagining it.

But what if they didn't have to imagine any more? Would it really be so out of character to kneel Theon between his feet in the great hall and preside over the feast with his cock in the boy's mouth for all to see? Nobody would stop him. He'd have loved to do more than that, to haul Theon up and fuck him over the head table, but that would give the lie to at least one of the more macabre stories they had tactically allowed to circulate and besides, there came a point of any given fuck when Theon was just absolutely useless at pretending he wasn't enjoying it. No, that one particular image would have to remain in the rostre of daydreams for Ramsay to flit through by himself, or to growl into Theon's ear whilst he flexed two fingers inside him, his other hand fisted just a little too tightly around Theon's cock for him to do anything much other than keen and squirm and sweat until Ramsay decided he was done with him.

Once again, Ramsay could easily have lost himself in the daydream and the easy, wet willingness of Theon's mouth, but the willingness went further and he absolutely had to take it. He still had the scent of blood from the hunt curling around his head and he wanted pain. Not the playful sort; not the teasing sort that would easily ebb into excitement, but the true kind that Theon took so admirably: the kind that made that proud body tremble and the tears spill but that he took, just for him. Not just for him, actually, it had turned out: because he wanted it, because it riled his lusts the same way it did Ramsay's; because even whilst the pain sapped the strength from his knees and made him cry and wail and writhe, the thought of it – the memory, the fantasy, sometimes the brutality of the act itself – made him hard.

Perhaps that' was why he'd elected to give Ramsay exactly the excuse he needed for whatever he appeared to be working himself up to: as appreciative as Theon had evidently been of being thrown at Ramsay's boots and as pleasant as him kissing them had been, on inspection he'd done a piss-poor job of cleaning them with his mouth. Who could blame him, really, and Ramsay would have presumed the command itself was a step too far if he hadn't seen him go about the task as if his life depended on it when it absolutely hadn't at least once previously, so the fact that he seemed to have missed some off the stone scuffs and one prominent spot of dirt before becoming so wonderfully side-tracked was unlikely to have been an accident.

So, Theon was of a mood to make trouble for himself on purpose? Ramsay eased himself away gently, pulled his clothes back into place and strode to the sturdy wooden saltire that dominated the entry chamber to the room.

“I want you up here,” he said gently, tapping his palm against the closest beam, waiting for the look of stoic apprehension that he never tired of. He received it, along with a visible swallow and a timid nod of acknowledgement.

Ramsay allowed his mouth to dry out whilst he watched Theon stand and undress, all the feebleness and shaking dropped in favour of his naturally regal bearing; the limp he feigned retreating to a slight favouring of his right leg, his left having been broken but well tended not that long previously. Without the rags and the character he was still every bit the prince: a grubby one, granted, and he bore more scars now from this than he'd ever won in battle, but that suited Ramsay just fine. He loved seeing his own marks on Theon, loved the way he shone with a pride nobody else recognised as he showed them off, appearing cowed and traumatised to the world whilst privately revelling in every shocked whisper and horrified glance. He loved the way Theon brought those stories back and writhed against him, stiff as a mast, telling Ramsay all about the things they'd said about him, the way they'd looked at him... They may have got the details wrong but the answer was the same. That proud body with all its noble breeding was Ramsay's now, to use and love and lavish with affection; that pure royal blood was his to taste and touch and spill on the floor of their bedchamber. Base born though Ramsay may be, Theon had surrendered to him gratefully and continued to do so, again and again, fulfilling hot and possessive desires Ramsay had only been dimly aware that he had almost incidentally in the process of his own debauchery.

Theon stood facing the cross and put his hands up, but Ramsay span him round and pressed his back against it, half-distracting him with warm, appreciative kisses whilst his wrists were stretched out to be secured by the leather strappings attached to the wood. It was a necessary break and functioned as part warm up, and part warning: this was not about to be quick, and he liked to be sure Theon had ample opportunity to consider what he wasn't refusing.

Fastening the cuffs was a pleasurable ritual for Ramsay in itself: he never rushed, and spent that time admiring the slender muscle of Theon's forearms, the delicate but sturdy bone there; feeling the excited flutter of his pulse under the soft heat of his skin. He took extra care to ensure the wrappings around Theon's still-healing scald stayed in place and fidgeted the leather strapping to hold tight enough that it couldn't rub, without cutting into the wounded flesh. The additional fuss was enjoyable for Theon too who shifted his weight, adjusting his stance to put just enough tension onto his bonds. His cock was beginning to lift and swell with interest, and Ramsay returned to press against Theon's body, kissing him softly before looking him soberly in the eyes.

“Alright? Are you warm enough? Is that going to be too tight on your burn?”

“It's nice, actually. The blisters are gone, the skin's knitted now, it's just a little...” He made a face Ramsay only ever saw him make for the very specific lilt of pleasure born of the sort of pain he truly enjoyed and shivered his shoulders, yanking his injured wrist against the strictness of his bonds and smiling softly. Yes, he was just fine.

Ramsay grinned, dark and predatory, laid his lips to his captive's collarbone to just threaten with his teeth, and settled back into his stride.

“So. Your choice today is... which of these do you want more of?” He began to work his fingers over the more recent of his marks, admiring with his hands: a deep bite on Theon's chest that had blanched in the middle of a circle of purple, vicious though it had been made in passion rather than any deliberate attempt to hurt or mark him; blotchy bands of black that crept around the sides of his thighs from where they stretched clean across the backs, put there with a broom handle; four clean puckered circles made with the end of a poker, white hot from the fire; the sharp pink lines on the tops of his arms where his knives had scored a Bolton cross... and that was where Theon gave a mindless whine of assent.

“...Really?” Cutting was hard work for Theon: the pain that aroused him by sensation was the deeper, higher impact sort; surface-level pain seemed to be far less tolerable for him, although he evidently enjoyed the fact he didn't enjoy it... truly, Theon was a contrary, complex work of art and Ramsay was expressly grateful for it. “Tell me, and be warned that I'm not feeling all that restrained. It was a good hunt...”  
  
The _yes_ was more of a hiss than a word. Discussing the fantasy without the physical presence, Theon might have been more direct in asking for what he wanted, but already slipping into his part, he cringed and shivered when Ramsay pushed him back against the wooden frame and was instantly in his face, breathing on his skin.

“Excellent choice. Then, I'll leave your feet loose because you're not-” seemingly from nowhere, a short dagger was in his hand, the tip pricking a point low on Theon's abdomen, just above his hipbone, “- even going to think about kicking me, are you?”

He was answered with a moan of mindless instinct and a frantic shake of Theon's head. The fear was real enough that Ramsay could smell it on his skin.

Ramsay started by absently doodling, dragging the flat of the knife over the skin, angled just enough that the tip of the blade pressed an indent in its lines, barely scratching through to draw blood in places. The restraint that took would have detratced from the thrill for him if it hadn't been for Theon's twisting and writhing, the way he almost arched into the blade's kiss, torn between his fear of the knife and his hunger for sensation. That itself made the knife work almost as satisfying as the real thing and his victim's willingness more than made up the deficit... after all, if his enjoyment wasn't such a crucial element, Ramsay could easily have been taking his whims out elsewhere, and where would have been the fun in that?

Here and there Ramsay twisted the blade onto its side, allowing the edge to cut into the skin proper, and watching Theon's body's answer keenly, transfixed by the well of blood into the line he'd drawn and invariably a restrained grunt as Theon fought to keep his mind on top of his physical response to the pain. He wasn't as good at handling cutting as he was with some things: it frightened him, made him sore, quite often brought him to tears a long time before he was ready to stop. A deserate, twisting hunger planted itself low in Ramsay's belly and spread. He knew Theon would want his 'torture' to escalate steadily until he was forced first to beg for mercy and offer all manner of secrets and services in return, and then to give Ramsay the clues and triggers that he'd really had enough, and Ramsay was determined to make him wait for that. He was in no hurry himself, content with the arousal prickling through his hips and up his back. He could be a surprisingly patient man, when he was sure of getting what he wanted.

It was worth waiting until Theon opened his eyes and fixed them on the blade before making a small incision just above his left nipple for the flash of shock but Ramsay forgot to watch his reaction, too entranced by the uneven curtain of blood that appeared on the wound and fell, drawing into split rivulets which each had to decide which side of the little nub to run down... Ramsay could not resist the urge to lean in and lick. Theon flinched, and if he was flinching at having his nipple licked then he was reaching a tipping point already. Good. For all his restraint and caution, it was becoming increasingly difficult for Ramsay to focus through the smell of blood, the tinge of it he'd picked up on his tongue with the nervous sweat from Theon's chest, the whimpers that were edgind ever closer to sobs... And seeing Theon cry... it should have been an anathema to the appeal of it all, but as long as he knew this was something he wanted, Ramsay could allow himself to revel in his instinctive enjoyment of his suffering. It was a difficult thing to quell, and trying to had been a great source of conflict and frustration for him.

Theon liked the release of it, the freedom of being given something to cry about and Ramsay wondered if he didn't hear something of his father in there. Ramsay wasn't given to sadness generally... grief, sometimes, but mostly anger which quickly found outlets and way to make itself constructive, so he understood Theon's occasional twists into oblique sadness without really empathising. But it was no skin off his nose: the things that made Theon cry happened to be things he loved to do. Coopting the skills he'd perfected for torture... what a person could bear, and the signs that they couldn't. What would hurt but not scar, what would scar but not damage, what would damage but not kill. Where would bleed plenty but stop quickly by itself or with a quick press of a fingertip, and where could take a deeper cut for a slower bleed. And he knew Theon knew that was what he was doing: choosing from his arsenal of techniques, reigning it in carefully enough to keep him safe but applying just enough pressure to get the reaction he wanted... which was probably why he was simultaneously whimpering with his eyes shut and so hard that the tip of his cock was shining wet.

Unseen, Ramsay shook his head at him, before concluding he was in no position to judge. The sight of Theon sniveling and arching under his blade had steeled him into an uncomfortable but steady excitement that he couldn't help but encourage along with his left hand hastily pushed down into his trousers. He couldn't do a lot without jogging his knifework but a few cramped strokes to his prick were enough to spread the hot tingles of interest right through his body and making achingly aware of just how keenly his body was responding even whilst his focus was occupied. He'd been concentrating so hard that somehow he hadn't noticed, but he was so aroused it was an effort to keep his breathing constant and his hands steady.

He was skittering his knife down the outside of Theon's thigh, varying the pressure between a gentle score and a teasing scratch, amusing himself, when he slipped. He'd tipped the handle of the knife up with a quick and well practiced flex of his knuckles, aiming to just dig the point through the skin, and then suddenly Theon's flesh had given in like butter, the blade was halfway to the hilt and Ramsay's hand around it was resting against Theon's leg.

Theon screamed.

As quickly as it happened it was over, Ramsay having the immediate composure to withdraw the blade along the exact angle at which it had entered before quickly flinging it into the corner of the room, ripping his glove off with his teeth and pressing his bare hand to the wound.

Theon seethed and yanked his wrists hard against their straps, but the word Ramsay was expecting didn't come, even as blood poured cleanly from the inch wide gash underneath his fingers. He'd nearly started answering it with apologies and reassurances, prepared to drop it all and grovel, to pay a hefty price in sulking and cold shoulders but Theon _wasn't even asking him to stop_ . He rolled his hand to risk a glance at what he'd done.

The incision didn't appear to be so terrible: it was deep but slim and nowhere near any major veins, it hadn't hit bone although it must have come close. The pain had to be midblowing, though, and that wasn't to be understated. Theon seemed to rise out of it for a few seconds but then dropped back down into panting, jiggling his other leg, whining, his eyes glossy with ready tears and lips just starting to purse around the word Ramsay suddenly couldn't bear to hear. It was just too beautiful. He knew he shouldn't, but...

“Can you hold on? Just 'til I – just for a moment, can you do that for me?”

Theon's response was a strangled whimpering sound. Ramsay had heard him make that noise for pure arousal before: he was obviously far too hurt for that but it was still definitely affirmative and that was enough.

Ramsay grabbed his way out of his trousers and gave in to the fevered urge to fist his hand around his aching prick. The need was consuming. He liked to hope he'd looked long enough to assess that the wound wasn't wide enough to be any immediate danger but in honesty he was just too far gone, pulling at himself desperately, his eyes skipping around to take in the blood, the tears, the obvious distress that was becoming something else: Theon was tossing his head, biting his bottom lip and looked to be approaching passing out or slipping into a different space entirely and that wouldn't do, then he'd have to stop...

“Stay with it, Theon...” Ramsay's breath was falling short of his needs, heaving his chest and puffing in stilted, hot bursts against Theon's neck, “... please. Please just...”

And Theon fought the shock settling on him admirably, steeling his face despite the tears streaking down it and the anguish twisting in his throat. It hurt. It hurt so much and so visibly. It took Ramsay only those scarce few moments to reach breaking point, held back only by the suddenness of the physical stimulation; the uncomfortable dryness of his hand against the insistent throb of his cock but he'd been so close before... He looked briefly down for one last glance at the damage he'd inflicted; Theon had begun whispering a frantic litany of his pain words as he fought to do as he'd been asked and the gory mess of his taut thigh was a thing of beauty. Ramsay heard himself moan. Spontanouesly, he gave up the hand he'd been stroking himself with to hold the edges of the cut together and wrapped his blood-slick hand around his cock. It was drying quickly but the sight of it was enough that it didn't matter, two or three strokes at the most and he was coming, painting sticky translucent streaks up the clammy skin of Theon's side; angling his hand quickly to stop it dripping into the wound and groaning low in his throat.

Ramsay couldn't afford to let his knees buckle or to give in to more than a split second of the bliss that flooded his body, although for a moment it was so consuming it made his head swim. He picked both of Theon's legs up and hitched them around his hips, resting the weight of his body between there and the cross whilst he unfastened his wrists as quickly as he could manage without wrenching at the burn – he really ought to be more careful. From there, Ramsay carried Theon backwards to the featherbed, laid him heavily but gently down and went straight to check on the wound, which had stopped bleeding quite so heavily.

It might need stitching, he gathered, but the firmness of the flesh was keeping it from gaping, and when Ramsay retrieved the small chest of supplies he kept under the bed, he found he didn't have any of the sinew he usually he used for small sutures, so keeping it elevated until a trip to the maester in the morning would have to suffice. It wouldn't do their notoriety any harm, either. He did have a pottery jar of thick salve, so Ramsay dabbed a neat line of it across the cut and pulled two strips of linen from the bundle in the box. One he rolled into a thick, narrow compress and with the other he pressed it down against the wound and strapped around Theon's thigh. It was a neat job, even though his hands were still shaking.

“Try not to move too much. It should be alright over night. I'll look after you.”

Theon was panting, damp with sweat and – it shouldn't have been a surprise, it was generally his response to seeing Ramsay bloodied up and coming unhinged – starting to stiffen again. With a brief kiss just above the makeshift bandage, Ramsay pushed himself away to retrieve a cup of wine from the table and bring it back, as quickly as he could, to Theon's lips.

He watched him drink and allowed himself to relax into the lingering warmth of his own pleasure as the colour returned to Theon's cheeks. Satisfied that Theon wasn't in danger or succumbing shock, Ramsay left him for a moment to strip out of his clothes, stopping on the way to kick an extra log into the fire before collecting the wine pitcher and returning to the side of the bed. Healing the wound was not about to present a problem, which meant all that remained was to complete the circle: to give Theon his reward.

Ramsay refilled the cup, taking a long mouthful himself before handing it back to Theon and sitting down next to him. His gaze was all smolder and appreciation as he ran his eyes over his body and his fingers up the underneath of Theon's steadily hardening cock.

“You're worse than me, you know.”

“I think,” Theon laughed out a shuddering breath, giving a pointed glance to the blood smeared over Ramsay's lower body and up his arm, “that is open to challenge.”

Ramsay had the decency to look chagrin, at least. He rubbed at the back of his neck, all the hardness and superiority gone from his demeanour. “Are you alright, though? I think there's some of that gods awful plum brandy if it'll help.”

Theon managed a giddy smirk. “I'll live. You've got a face on you like you're about to make it up to me.”

Ramsay didn't need to say anything to tell him he was right, he just set the pitcher down on the floor and settled on his knees between Theon's legs on the bed. He hoped the heat in his eyes put across how enthralled he was by him - by his bravery, his resillience, his perversion, his sheer bloodymindedness - as he trawled open mouthed kisses down Theon's body. He lingered around his navel, waiting for Theon to meet his gaze as he moved down, leaving no ambiguity about his destination. Theon's cock twitched in response.

Ramsay didn't tarry or tease about taking it into his mouth. It was crucial to catch him on the upswing as the pain ebbed, before he became overwhelmed, whilst he was still enjoying the thrills of fear and threat and Ramsay's enthusiastic response to his suffering. Fortunately, although he was shaking, Theon was apparently present enough to feel the far more gentle attention of lips and tongue, and although he squirmed when he tried to shift his legs, Ramsay could tell pleasure was building as he'd hope as he sucked him, just beginning to edge ahead of the discomfort for his attentions.

If he'd ever experienced anything more intimate than the feel of Theon's pulse against his tonuge, the way its intensity faded in time with Theon's hand twisting in the coverlet as a wave of pain dragged at him and then released him back into Ramsay's touches, he couldn't call it to mind. He stroked the back of his knuckles soothingly down the inside of Theon's uninjured thigh to distract him through the worst of it and resumed sucking around his cock, ducking his head to let more of its length push into his mouth and drawing back to lap his tongue against the underneath of the head. It was rare that Ramsay did this with no game or ulterior motive in mind but he couldn't for the life of him think why at that moment. Theon's hips rolled gently of their own accord, he was whimpering with frustrated bliss on every breath and Ramsay offered no distraction, no complication, just the simple pleasure of his wet and willing mouth. He slid his hands under Theon's hips to grasp the globes of his arse in his palms and just squeezed gently... Theon groaned in gratitude.

Ramsay worked at Theon with his tongue, holding as much of him in his mouth as he could comfortably take and kneading his fingers into Theon's backside to encourage him to choose his own pace, to take what he wanted, as much or as little as he was ready for as he weathered the evening's onslaught on his senses.

He turned out to be ready for quite a bit. Theon dropped his hands onto Ramsay's shoulders for purchase and lifted his hips to drive himself deeper into the back of Ramsay's throat, more forcefully than he'd ordinarily dare but that was understandable - if he hadn't earned it now, when would he? - and Ramsay was quietly thrilled that he was so enthusiastic despite the pain. Because of it? Still, it wouldn't do to choke. Ramsay slipped his hand out, stroking them up and over Theon's thighs onto his hips, using one to press him down into the bed and the other to grib the base of his prick so that he could lavish all his attention where it was wanted, easier at his own pace now he knew that would be enough. His admiration for the way Theon could take him right down his throat flared in an unexpected shudder down his back and he pulled away to recover his breath, working Theon with steady drags of his hand.

“Ramsay?”  
  
“Are you hurting so badly? Shall I find you some willow bark? That brandy? I-”

“No Ram, don't stop...” the edge of desperation in Theon's voice was enough to convince him. “...How far did the knife go in?”

_Rotten to the core, that one_.

Ramsay grinned and gestured with his fingers. He was generous about the measurement, correctly guessing that Theon was tying the evening's events into fantasy already and would want to know just how brave he'd been, how much damage he'd taken on in the fullfillment of his master's whims, so he laid it on thick. “I'll have to take you to the maester in the morning for stitches, so you'll have to lie flat until then. No kennel duties until the skin heals, I'll make sure Ben knows not to ask for you.”

“What will you tell them?”

Ramsay knew the squeak to Theon's voice was put there by neither fear nor pain but the helpless want that was always kindled by the thought of showing off his abuse. Ramsay could help with that, and not just by continuing to stroke Theon's cock with an easy grip.

“That I got carried away and stabbed you. I'll leave the rest to their sick little minds, let them imagine where, and how that came about, and why I've been so busy with you since that it's taken me until morning to get you fixed up...” Theon's strangled whine was an obvious herald of his impending climax so Ramsay aimed his next jab at a familiar weakspot, and disguised it as concern. “Are you sure you're not faint? There was a lot of blood. It's all over the floor, that's going to be an awful job for someone to clean up...” He could feel the heat of his own breath against the damp skin as he panted the words out, chalky; an incidental lick to keep the head of Theon's cock wet and help him along. “How long do you think it will be before my father hauls me in to make me explain what in the hells I've done to you this time?”

Theon bucked up and grabbed for Ramsay's head, grasping his hair and mashing his face blindly down into his crotch. Ramsay had the sense to keep his mouth open and slack to accommodate a few clumsy thrusts; the taste on his tongue sharpened and Theon arched right off the bed when he came, gasping himself into silence.

Ramsay kept still whilst he finished, held it in his mouth, but it would have been too easy for Theon and too horribly out of character for Ramsay if he hadn't pulled Theon roughly up by a bruising grip on his shoulder to lay their mouths together, pusging Theon's come into his own mouth in a kiss full of tongue, slow and gleeful.

Theon swallowed – as if he had any choice in the matter – and briefly looked as if he were about to say something, but gave up, rolled his eyes back and collapsed into Ramsay's pillows with a warm sigh.

Once he was sure Theon had come down a little, Ramsay hopped out of the bed and made his way to the large chest under the far window which contained bedclothes and functioned as a makeshift table. From underneath a cloth there he produced a tray which held more wine and two thirds of a loaf of honey cake, which he balanced on the wooden board at the head of the bed whilst he nudged Theon forwards and up out of the pillows to climb in behind him. If he sloshed a little wine onto the bedclothes in the process, it was indistinguishable from fresh bloodstains.

“Here, sit up. You need this.”

Theon took the cup he was offered and held his own weight forwards – with some effort, if the whine he affected was any indication – as Ramsay clambered across, manouvered his legs either side of Theon's hips, shifted his weight around and finally settled. Once he saw that Ramsay had a second pitcher at the ready Theon drained the cup, settling back against Ramsay's chest and tipping his head back onto his shoulder whilst Ramsay filled the cup for himself, drank deeply, and gave it back.

The relaxed, intimate kissing they fell into was surprisingly earnest; heady considering they were both recently spent and there hadn't been time for the wine to go to their heads. Ramsay only interrupted them to twist and retrieve the bowl of honey cake, resting it in Theon's lap and beginning to breaking it apart with his fingers. It was dense, sturdy and practical, made for function over art just like most things at the Dreadfort, something like Ramsay himself, but it was heavy with sugar and would help Theon get his strength back.

At that moment, to Theon at least, the sweetness was also comparable. He walked his fingers teasingly up Ramsay's forearm. “At what point did the Lord of the Dreadfort start bringing me cakes and wine in bed?”

“I brought them up with me earlier. I thought you might need it.”

Theon pulled sideways, twisting round to feign incredulity. “Drowning fucking hell. What were you _planning_ on doing to me?”

“Not that.” Ramsay glanced guiltily down in the direction of the makeshift bandage, now partly covered by silk-quilted blanket. A neat, thin line of blood showed through the wrappings, not spreading. “How is it feeling?”

Theon shrugged bravely and accepted a corner of cake from Ramsay's hand, closing his lips around his fingers and being generous with his tongue. Ramsay clucked and rolled his eyes at him but didn't pull his hand away. He was right: what he'd initially taken to be residual bliss from orgasm had lingered too long to be so: it was the heat of the blood sport that wasn't dissipating for him. For either of them, apparently, but it would wait to be reignited in the morning when he had to take Theon to get the wound dressed properly. He'd make a show of it. Perhaps he'd carry him, bloodied and half-naked, bring him back and tend to him without all the kid-gloved restraint, the way he knew Theon would want to be treated ... but for now he needed to rest. Theon was already settling heavily, drifting towards sleep.

Wary of the dwindling hearth fire and the settling shock, Ramsay gathered the furs up around them and folded Theon in his arms, against his chest.

 

Epilogue

 

The blue light of dawn was beginning to break as Eltha made her way up the stairs with the first two pails of near-boiling water for the Master's bath. If the young Bolton they used to call the Bastard wasn't in his chamber, she'd have taken them in, emptied them into the tub and returned the buckets but when he was asleep it was generally thought best to leave them in the antechamber between door and bedroom proper and let his... let Reek do the rest of the work.

The door opened smoothly, all the creaks having been oiled out of the hinges by the first clever spark who'd realised they didn't want the comeuppance for waking Ramsay Bolton uninvited as they went about their early morning duties. Eltha backed through the door carefully, so as not to spill any of the hot water, and tried to keep her eyes down and off the horrible, imposing wooden cross that had been transplanted from the Dreadfort's dungeons.

What she couldn't avoid seeing was the oily pool of blood by the base of the awful thing, sprawling and uneven, black in the cold morning sunshine. From one edge, gaps and streaks trailed, forming footprints as they tracked inevitably, gruseomely towards the bed, where... the young Bastard of the Dreadfort lay partially tangled in silks and furs, looking almost childlike... innocent, save for the flaking smears of dried gore on his exposed skin and the battered slave in his bed.

Curled into the crook of his arm, with Ramsay's face buried posessively in the back of his neck, was the hostage the young lord had shown such spectacular devotion to tormenting... naked as the day he was born from what she could see. Ramsay's notorious pet had a gleaming black eye, a number of bitemarks she didn't remember seeing him with the day before and - Seven Hells, what _had_ he done to the boy's poor broken mind? - most disturbingly of all, he was smiling.

Eltha backed away, whispering a frantic few words to The Seven on her way down the stairs. Would they know no mercy for the poor wretch they'd once known as Theon Greyjoy?

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ...And they presumably lived happily ever after, tucked away in a turret somewhere eating and fucking and living the life of riley and disturbing the of the staff whilst the world burned. Seriously, that's my headcanon and I'm sticking with it. 
> 
> As you may have gathered, this was originally intended to be the final installment. However before finishing it I realised I'd essentially set myself up cart blanche to write Fifty Shades of Greyjoy and had a variety of requests from friends, besides my own rather grim laundry list of kinks and facination with dark ages torture equipment, so more will be added. 
> 
> Feedback, prompting and encouragement are all gratefully received: I genuinely embarked upon this ridiculous little voyage to make myself smile, and seeing others enjoying it (or being able to write more to tick their boxes) is making me really happy. Talk to me!


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